Seven Days
by sams1ra
Summary: Seven days. A week. That's as long as he could stand to be away. That's how long he could stand to be without them.
1. Impossibilities

Seven Days

**Disclaimer:** Don't own 'em, but thrilled to get a second season! Oh, and the song lyrics belong to Simple Plan.

A/N: I always thought it strange that with everything he'd been through, Dean had never had a meltdown of sorts. So, maybe he had. This was supposed to be a oneshot, but it got too long, so it's two chapters. Dean's POV.

Warnings: A tissue warning, I guess. Some language, and a lot of Tortured!Dean. And you may resent Sam and John after reading this…

* * *

_Everybody's screaming.  
I try to make a sound, but no one hears me.  
I'm slipping off the edge,  
I'm hanging by a thread,  
I wanna start this over again. _

How could this happen to me?  
I made my mistakes,  
Got no where to run,  
The night goes on  
As I'm fading away.  
I'm sick of this life,  
I just wanna scream  
How could this happen to me?

_Simple Plan - Untitled_

* * *

Chapter One – Impossibilities

You always want what you cannot have. For John Winchester, it was closure, revenge. For his youngest son Sam, it has always been another life, a _normal_ life. For his oldest – Dean – it was a family. A real family. One that actually cared you were gone. One that actually stopped fighting long enough to notice you were gone. That you were about to die.

* * *

"Well, if you wanted me to just stay out of the way you shouldn't have brought me there in the first place!" Sam yelled at the top of his lungs. "I never wanted to go anyway!" 

"I'm your father, and you'll do whatever I tell you to do! And when I say get the hell out of the way, you don't get in front of the damn poltergeist and start taunting it, you get out of the way!" John yelled back, and Dean couldn't help but wonder if their family's secret could possibly still be a secret at the volume those two were screaming at each other. This fight has been going on forever. Well, since Sam turned thirteen, at least. So that would make it a little more than a year-long fight. Seriously, Dean was getting sick of it. The fights were bad, and once they were over, it didn't usually get any better; doors slamming, long, angry silences, a lot of tension in the air, and him, getting caught in the middle. It's been getting worse and worse and Sam was only fourteen, for crying out loud. Dean hated to think how bad things would get if Sam didn't realize how important their job was, how important hunting was, and not only to their father. He wished Sam would understand, and the sooner the better, that doing this together, as a family, made them stronger, and that stupid fights like this one only got them hurt. And he had had the bruised ribs and the concussion to prove that. His head was pounding already, and he only assumed the shouting match wasn't going to make it easier on him.

Dean scrambled out of bed, fighting the sudden nausea – and unfortunately lost. His breakfast. All over the bathroom floor. He groaned, cleaning up the mess, and fighting the urge to add to it. He hated throwing up. When he was sure his stomach was once again content, he got slowly to his feet, leaning heavily on the bathroom sink. He washed his face, taking a sip from the water and spitting it out, trying to get rid of the horrible taste in his mouth. He closed his eyes, resting his head against the mirror, and listening. For a second there he didn't hear any shouting. Was now a good time to get out of his room and let them know how miserable he felt? He grimaced at the renewed shouting. _Nope. Not the right moment_, he thought, and threw up again.

Dean rested his head against the wall, too tired to get up, the heels of his hands pressed against his eyes. Man, this was a bad one. His head was throbbing. Any more shouting, and Dean felt his head would explode. He had to get out of there. He had to get some fresh air and some freaking quiet or he was going to bang his head against the wall just so he could pass out and have some nice, quiet, sleep.

He got gingerly to his feet, swaying lightly as he made his way back to his bed and sat heavily down on it. He stared at his duffle, opened at the feet of his bed, clean and dirty clothes protruding out of it. _What was he doing? Oh, yeah, getting dressed_. He slowly pulled his jeans on, and then slumped back on the bed. His throat felt raw. Man, he hated throwing up. _Why was he getting dressed again? Oh, yeah, the shouting. It's been two days already, guys, could you knock it off already? Or at least take it down a notch?_ Putting a shirt on, not even sure if it were a clean one, he scrambled out of the room.

"Hey, dad, I'm going outside for a moment, okay?" he said, popping his head in the kitchen. His father grumbled, not even looking at him. Dean sighed and turned to the living room. "Sammy, I'm going out for some air." But Sam just turned the volume on the TV up. Dean pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose, and got out.

In all fairness, Sam had a point to his argument this time. It was too soon for another hunt. Dean honestly didn't think he was up to it. Of course, if anyone had asked, he'd say he was, but he knew he wasn't. He just wanted to stay in bed and have someone bring him coffee and cookies and… _here goes that stupid stomach again_. He stopped, taking a couple of deep breathes to make sure whatever left in his stomach actually stayed there. It was just a stomach bug, he kept telling himself. A forty eight hours kind of thing, that's all. Okay, so maybe a seventy two hours thing, but still… Sam had a point. Going after a Raw this early after the poltergeist thing… On the other hand, his father had had a point too. The longer it took them to find the damn thing and kill it, the more kids got hurt.

Dean walked slowly, huddled inside himself, and pulled his jacket tighter around him to keep warm. He would have to go back soon, before the rain started. He could already hear the sound of distant thunder. Dean slumped against a bench, slouching, catching his breath. The headache was still there, but at least the nausea was gone. The fresh air seemed to be doing what it should. Dean closed his eyes for a moment and sighed. _Time to get back_, he thought, but didn't get up. A squeaking sound caught his attention and he opened his eyes, quickly turning to the source of the sound. Just a couple of swings swinging. _Probably the wind_, he told himself. It was getting colder. He got to his feet with a small grunt as the first of the tiny drops hit him on the nose. He quickly wiped it off and started back to their apartment. He never made it there. Something jumped him from behind, and he fell, hitting his head hard against the ground and blacking out.

* * *

Dean woke up with a moan, trying to bring his eyes to focus. He let his head fall back, too tired and weak to keep it up, as he tried to take in his surroundings. It seemed like a dark, damp cellar. Dean groaned, closing his eyes. His head hurt, his hurt ribs making it difficult to breathe, and he couldn't move his hands. Well, that caught his attention. Snapping his eyes open, he forced the dizziness away and took a better look around. Well, shit. No need looking for the Raw. Only, it didn't exactly look like a Raw Head. Last time he had seen one, it looked bigger, nastier. Then again, last time he had seen one, he had been fourteen, and was used as bait. _Maybe I still am_, he thought, trying his hardest to bring his brain to focus, _surely, dad won't use Sam as bait_. Dean would never let him. So that must be it, they went hunting for the Raw, and he was bait. Good. That meant dad and Sam would burst through those doors any minute and teach this bastard what it meant to mess with a Winchester. He just had to stay conscious and wait. _That's it. Any moment now… Come on_… 

Dean gulped. _Any moment now, guys…_ he thought, _seriously, now would be as good a time as any_… The Raw seemed to have noticed Dean was awake. It made a gurgling sound that sounded somewhat like laughter, and drew nearer. Dean's heart was racing, and the fact that his hands were chained to the wall above his head and felt like rubber didn't help things much. He grimaced as the Raw licked the blood from the side of his head. _Ew, gross!_ Dean jerked his head away, but the Raw didn't seem to appreciate the gesture. It dug its claws deep in Dean's side and Dean couldn't help the cry of pain that escaped his lips. _Damn, since when did Raws even had claws like that anyway? Dad, where the hell are you?_ Dean thought as the Raw put its clawed hand on his face and bashed his head against the wall once, twice, three times. Stars were bursting in front of his eyes. The only thought still in his head was to stay awake. _Just stay awake, Dean, you can't fight this thing if you're dead, right_?

* * *

Sam slammed the door as hard as he could. He knew his dad hated it when he slammed doors like that. _Even better_. Damn that stubborn man! Couldn't he see that Dean wasn't well yet? And couldn't he possibly come up with a better plan than using them as bait? Seriously, the guy had some really screwed up priorities! Sam glanced at Dean's bed. _Good. He wasn't here_. Last thing Sam needed was for his smartass, annoying brother to take their father's side. Good little soldier, only thing he'll ever question their dad about was how high he should jump. Sam snorted angrily. _Seriously, Dean, time to grow a backbone, don't you think?_ Sam thought angrily as he kicked his shoes off and changed into a T-shirt and some sweat pants before getting in bed. Damn good thing Dean wasn't there. He really didn't feel like getting a lecture right now. He let out a little angry grunt and pulled the pillow over his head, going to sleep. 

Sam woke up at the sound of a car horn. He glanced at the little clock on the small nightstand between his and Dean's beds and cursed, jumping out of bed. _Great. He's late_. Why the hell didn't Dean wake him up? He said he would set the alarm! _Well, that's what you get when you let other people do stuff that's important to you_, Sam thought, quickly getting dressed. _And where the hell was his brother anyway?_ Sam thought. He glanced at Dean's bed. It was unmade and messy. _Well, he couldn't have gotten out that long ago then_, Sam thought irritably, stomping into the bathroom. No time for breakfast, thanks to his thoughtful brother. Grabbing his school bag, Sam rushed out of the house, cursing all the way to school. No way was he wasting more time waiting for Dean to take him. Just because his brother didn't think school was a big deal didn't give him the right to make that same decision for Sam. He's going to have to talk to his older brother about that. Just because Dean didn't give a damn if he flunked every subject and gave up on the idea of college when he was ten, didn't mean Sam had any wish to imitate him.

* * *

Dean was trying his best to fight his growing panic. His teeth were clattering, and it was getting so much harder just to keep his eyes open. He was freezing, and could do little more than glare at the Raw as it came ever so near, waiting. _It wouldn't have to wait too long_, Dean thought bitterly. The water was already up to his chest. His throat was raw from yelling all night long. His eyes were so heavy, but he couldn't pass out. He just couldn't. He had to wait just a little while longer. His dad would come. Sammy will find him. Surely, they noticed he didn't come home last night, right? He had told them both he was going out, Sam would never go to bed without knowing he was there, would he? The Raw made an eerie clicking noise, and Dean did everything he could to just hold on. Help was on its way, he was sure of that. Man, his dad would be pissed at that thing. _You're going to be toast, you stupid bastard, just wait till my dad and my brother get here. You just wait_… 

The water was up to his neck now. That was what woke him up. His head dropped, and he got a pretty good idea what a fish felt like before he jerked up and pushed himself farther up, standing up on his frozen legs with tremendous effort. He looked around. The cellar wasn't very big, but it was big enough. Filling it up with freezing water all the way to his chest when he was on his feet took a hell of a long time. Too long. His father and brother should have been here by now. They should have been here a hell of a long time ago!

And that's when he knew. No one was coming. If he wanted out of this, he would have to do it himself. If he wanted to get out of this alive, he'd better think of a way to move his freaking hands, get out of those damn chains, and kill the bastard that kept punching holes in his side, before he lost too much blood or drowned, or both. No, if he's going to live through this, he had to do it on his own.

* * *

Sam dumped his schoolbag unceremoniously on the kitchen table, and not very gently, and flung the refrigerator door open. Great. Nothing. Not a damn thing to eat. _Someone_ must have forgotten to do the shopping. _Again_. Slamming the refrigerator closed, Sam started for his room. He was even angrier than he had been that morning. Not only was he late for class, he was completely unprepared for the pop quiz they had in third period, and remembered he had a test that day only at his lunch hour. That was just perfect. First time he ever failed a test. _There goes my GPA_. Dean would probably just tell him not to have a hissy-fit, the jerk. Didn't even pick him up from school. Wasn't it enough that he didn't wake him up on time? No, he had to be a complete ass and make Sam walk home from school in the pouring freakin' rain. _Perfect. It was just a freakin' perfect day_. 

"Sam?" Sam stopped at the sound of his name, but then gritted his teeth and kept walking. "You're leaving puddles all over the floor," _Well, Jeez, dad, really? Haven't noticed_, Sam thought bitterly as he got in the bathroom and peeled off the clothes that clung to his skin.

"How was school?" his father asked him after he'd gotten out of the shower and changed his clothes. _What would you care anyway?_ Sam thought angrily, _if it were up to you, we wouldn't even be in school! Just a waste of freaking time, isn't it? No use for math and history and science while we're hunting, right dad_?

"There's nothing in the fridge." Sam snapped instead. John raised a brow and opened the refrigerator. There was the pot roast Dean made four days ago, and a bucket of chicken from KFC they bought the other night, and… he raised his brow again. The mushroom soup he had made for Dean was still there. He had told his son to finish it last night, so he would get some more strength before the hunt tonight. John reached for a beer before closing the refrigerator door.

"Where's your brother anyway?" he asked, looking at the time. It was almost seven in the evening. "He should have been back from school hours ago. I told him I wanted to get an early start on that Raw."

"You should know, he's _your_ perfect soldier, isn't he?" Sam snapped, and it was all John could do not to slap him across the face. He was just about to shout his reply when the front door flung open and his eldest walked in, soaked through and through. John cried out for him, but Dean ignored him, walking unsteadily past his father and his brother, and into the bedroom and the adjoined bathroom. He locked the door behind him, closing the lid on the toilet and crashing down. _Man, once he would be able to feel again, he was _so _going to be sore all over_… Dean ignored the knock on the bathroom door, ignored his father's voice. It barely registered in his head anyway. There was only room in his mind for two things right now: '_Cold'_, and '_Ow_'. Dean sat on the closed toilet seat until he was pretty sure his feet could carry his weight again, and then tried to get up. _Nope. Not quite yet_. He leaned his head against the wall, closing his eyes. _No, can't close eyes. Can't sleep. Sleep bad. Sleep dangerous._ He forced himself to open his eyes, teeth still clattering, and reached for the shower. He stumbled inside and sat on the tiled floor, again resting his head against the wall. He wondered, if he wished really hard, would the hot water start by itself, or would he really have to get up and turn it on. _Well, that would just have to wait, wouldn't it_? Dean stared at his shoes. _Gotta take these off. Damn_. His fingers felt numb as he forced his shoes off his feet and then peeled his jeans off with great effort. He cursed, pulling himself up, and turned the hot water on all the way, letting it spray over him as he gritted his teeth and did his best not to cry out as he worked to peel what was left of his shirt off him. The water washed away the blood from his head, his hands and his torso as Dean just sat there in his underwear and tried his best not to fall asleep. The banging on the door didn't even register. Nothing but those two thoughts – '_Cold', 'Ow'_. Though slowly it just turned to one thought. '_Ow'_.

Dean suddenly realized he didn't really like the idea of sitting around in water anymore. Kinda' had enough with that for a while. He staggered out of the shower, barely remembering to turn the now not so hot water shut, and grabbed a towel off the rack. It wasn't even his. _Oh, who cares_. He dried himself off, gritting his teeth at the pain, and looked at the wounds to his side. They were quite deep. _Damned Raw_. The bastard was just plain lucky it was dead or Dean would definitely… do something… once he could get his brain to focus on anything other than 'ow'. Oh, and the 'cold' thing was definitely making a comeback.

Dean stumbled back to the sink, opening the small cabinet above it, and took out the first aid kit. He fixed himself up as best he could, which wasn't saying much, and sat back on the closed toilet, bloodied towel discarded on the floor. There was something he needed to do. He had a plan. Been thinking about it all the way back home. Now, if he could just remember what it was…

"Come on, sport, you're wasting time. We need to get going. That Raw isn't going to kill itself, you know." _Oh, yeah. That_.

Dean scrambled to his feet, unlocking the bathroom door and got back into the bedroom. His mind raced, only it seemed to be stuck in neutral. Getting dressed seemed to take forever. He looked around the room. Most of his stuff was still in his duffle. Good thing he wasn't much for unpacking. He picked his walkman off the nightstand, shoving it in the duffle along with the first aid kit. Anything else could just stay. He lifted his duffle and quickly dropped it back. Taking out a couple of shirts and a pear of jeans, he tried again. _Better. Still heavy, but better_. Dean tried to divide the weight between both his shoulders, but the gash on his left one just hurt too much. He gave the room another look-round. Oh, the AC/DC tape, couldn't leave that. He quickly tucked it in his back pocket and got out of the room. _Shouts again. Maybe it was a good thing he couldn't really focus_.

His father and his brother were standing by the door, arguing. _What else was new_? Dean thought as he pushed through them. His father stopped him.

"I'm really disappointed in you, Dean." He said, "Those guns had better not jam. And you'd better remembered to charge up those tazers!" he growled. Dean stared blankly at him, saying nothing. "Well, go wait by the car, I'll deal with you later!" his father snapped, letting go of his arm. Dean opened the door and stepped back out into the rain. He started for his father's car, but didn't stop once he got to it. He kept going, hastening his step a little as he saw the bus pulling into the bus stop. Someone stopped it for him, and he thanked them, panting.

"Where to, kid?" the driver asked him. Dean reached in his pocket, fishing out a twenty dollar bill. That, and some change, was all he had.

"How far is that going to take me?" Dean asked.

* * *

"…Now go get your jacket and get in the car!" John finished. Sam glowered at him. "Now!" John bellowed just as Sam was about to speak. Sam narrowed his eyes angrily and shuffled back to the bedroom. He cursed as he stumbled over Dean's duffle and nearly fell. _The stupid jerk! How difficult is it to just tuck the damn thing under his bed?_ Sam thought angrily, kicking the duffle, and then cursed again at the pain in his foot. _Just perfect_, Sam thought as he started out of the room, turning the light off. And then he thought of something. Dean's laundry may be ripe sometimes, but it was never that _hard_. Turning the light back on, Sam went back to his brother's duffle. A couple of shirts and a pear of jeans were tossed on top of it. Sam crouched, pushing the shirts away, and sucked in his breath at the sight of all the weapons and ammo and the distinct lack of Dean's clothes. _But, if all the weapons are here, than what's Dean carrying?_ Another disturbing thought crossed Sam's mind and he rushed outside. 

"Sam, you didn't take your gun." His father reminded him, but he ignored him. Sam blinked in the darkness, trying to see through the rain. His father had the keys and the Impala was locked. Dean was nowhere to be seen. "Sam, come back here and get it!" his father called out to him. _No way. It couldn't be. It just… couldn't. Dean wouldn't just pack up and leave. No freaking way_. He'd sooner believe the earth was a square raspberry bubble gum. Now, if it was his father that just up and left, he could see that happening, but Dean? _No. Freaking. Way_.

Sam slowly made it back to the house, still ignoring his father as he rushed back to their room. He crawled down under the bed, but there was only a sock there. Okay, and a book and some dirt. _Wait, a book, really?_ Sam shook his head, he'll tease his brother about it some other time. Right now, the lack of Dean's usual mess was more alarming. Turning quickly to the closet, he opened the door with such force it nearly fell off its hinges. There were a couple of Dean's sweats, mostly his training clothes, and his school stuff. Everything else was Sam's.

"Sam, what the hell are you doing? Come on!" his father rushed him. But the words just got in one ear and out the other. Dean was gone. Dean left. The sky was purple. See, that actually made more sense. Flowers could talk. That also made more sense than his older brother walking out on him. Dean wouldn't even let him cross the street on his own until he was eleven. How the hell could he _leave_?

Sam fell heavily on his bed, staring blindly at Dean's shirt on the floor. He just couldn't process the thought. It couldn't be. Dean was the one that kept telling them to stop fighting, that the family is what mattered most. More than the hunt. More than anything. How could he freaking _leave_? "Sam! Didn't you hear me? I said get a move on, now!" Sam's eyes watered, his throat constricting. "I'm not letting you stay here, so just cut the act!" John snapped at him. "Your brother and I need you, so just…"

"He's gone." Sam said hauntingly.

"What?" Sam raised his eyes to meet his father's.

"Dean's gone." He repeated again, though he couldn't make himself say it out loud.

"Yeah, he's getting soaked out there, waiting for you to drag your ass to the car!"

"No, dad, Dean's gone." Sam said slowly. "He left." John blinked, a grin crossing his lips. _Right. Dean leaving._ He'd sooner believe turtles could play pro-ball or that the most important thing in the universe was, in fact, forty two. But the look on Sam's pale face made his grin fade quickly. He frowned, rushing outside, calling out to his eldest. There was no answer. He ran to the car. Nothing. Looking both ways up and down the street, still calling out to Dean. There was no one there. The street emptied quickly once the rain got heavier. John felt like someone had sucker-punched him. And then he just felt angry. Very angry.

Sam cried out to his father as he found the bloodied towel and the torn and bloody shirt on the bathroom floor. And then John forgot his anger. Now he was just apprehensive. And then worried sick.

TBC

A/N: So, what do you say? Ready for the last part? Review to let me know what you think.

A/A/N: If you can, I'd recommend listening to the Simple Plan song 'Untitled' after reading this, or at least reading the lyrics. It really captures the mood.


	2. Me Against the World

Seven Days

**Disclaimer:** Don't own 'em. The song lyrics belong to Simple Plan and Evanessence.

A/N: I know I messed up the ages and the timeline a little, but try to ignore it, would you?

Warnings: Some self harm and abuse, though I tried to write those as PG-13 as possible. Now, you have your tissues ready? Good, you'll need 'em. Enjoy and review!

* * *

_Now I'm sick of this waiting,  
So come on and take your shot!  
You can spit all your insults,  
But nothing you say is gonna change us.  
You can sit there and judge me,  
Say what you want to,  
We'll never let you in. _

I'm a nightmare, a disaster,  
That's what they always said.  
I'm a lost cause, not a hero,  
But I'll make it on my own.  
I've got to prove them wrong,  
They'll never bring us down,

We'll never fall in line,  
I'll make it on my own,  
Me against the world.

_Simple Plan – Me Against the World_

* * *

Chapter Two – Me Against the World

Dean got off the bus at the bus terminal. He had four bucks and some change left, not that he cared all too much. Every muscle in his body ached, his head was pounding with the remains of the concussion and the new abuse, and his side felt like it was on fire. But none of that was nearly as painful as the feeling of betrayal. His own family abandoned him when he needed them most, left him to fend for himself against the Raw when he was already weak and tired. They never even came looking for him. Hell, they didn't even realize he was gone. They didn't need him. So fine. See how well they managed without him to take the slack. Without him to buy the groceries his dad kept forgetting to buy, and cooking all the meals and making sure Sammy had everything he needed and all the help he needed with his homework. See how well they do without him. He could take care of himself just fine. Hell, he's been doing just that for the better part of his life.

The bus terminal was emptying quickly due to the lateness of the hour. Dean pulled the collar of his jacket higher to protect himself against the wind. He spent the night squatting in an abandoned building downtown, with a few other junkies and homeless people. It wasn't the first time he's done it. Hell, this place was better than the place he had spent last night in. At least here he was pretty sure he won't drown to death or get eaten. He wasn't stupid enough to leave his knife behind. John Winchester didn't raise a fool for a son. Come to think about it, John Winchester didn't raise anyone. Even injured and messed up, Dean could still give anyone looking for trouble a run for their money.

Dean figured he'd just weather the storm and then go back out to the streets. He needed to keep going. He wasn't sure why, but he just needed to keep going. But his body wouldn't listen to him, and he was quickly asleep.

He woke up with a start the next morning, when a dog started barking like a maniac, its barks resonating in the small, filthy space. Dean winced as he got to his feet, sore, stiff, cold and still very tired. At least the rain stopped. Shouldering the duffle he used as a pillow, he got out in search for breakfast. He needed something warm to eat. A smile and some flirting earned him a free cup of coffee in a small and busy diner. He ordered bacon, eggs and hash browns and left without paying the check. It wasn't the first time he had done that, either. He had to pick someone's pocket to get the money to pay for his lunch and some much needed pain killers. By noon it was painfully clear he had to take care of his injuries, and quick. Some of them required stitching, and some were beyond his reach. He did what he could, dry-swallowing three pain killers and fighting the need to sleep, praying that his body didn't betray him the way his family did. By that evening, he couldn't stand on his feet anymore. He crashed near a school and just stared blankly at the people going by. They all ignored him, pretended he wasn't there. He was used to that, too. His dad did that whenever he didn't need anything taken care of.

"Hey," someone poked his shoulder and Dean hissed in pain. He berated himself for falling asleep. "Hey, there's a free clinic three blocks from here, you know." The young girl told him. By the looks of her, she was no stranger to the streets. Dean tried to focus on her face, but seeing as there were three of those, he found it a little difficult.

"Why'd you think I need a clinic?" he slurred. She crouched next to him.

"Um, I dunno. Maybe 'cause you're bleeding?" she suggested, pointing at his side. Dean looked down and cursed at the sight of blood staining his shirt. One of his cuts must have opened, and now the shirt was stuck to the wound. That was going to be a bitch to clean, not to mention painful. The girl grabbed his arm, pulling him to his feet. "Come on, I'll show you." She said, and Dean started to protest. "Don't worry, they're pretty cool. They don't ask too many questions." She said knowingly. Too weak to argue, Dean accepted her help.

"I can't… pay you." Dean breathed as she led him on through the crowded streets. He had to bite his lips whenever someone ran into him, sending jabs of blinding pain through his body. But he just sucked it up, never crying out. Hey, he's been hurt worse before.

"Don't worry about it." the girl laughed, "You look like you're new." She said, and Dean nodded. "Runaway or kicked out?" she asked, but he didn't answer. She didn't push. She pointed at the small clinic down the street and left him there, saying she had to get back to her corner. Dean thanked her, and then she was gone. He hesitated a long time before he got in the clinic. Actually, he never would have come in if it weren't for one of the doctors who had just taken a cigarette break and rushed him inside.

The girl was right. They asked for his name, but more to make sure he was coherent than anything else. They cleaned and sutured his wounds, patched him up, gave him a couple of pain killers and some antibiotics and then shoved a handful of pamphlets in his hands and let him leave. Fastest he'd ever been out of a clinic before.

He slumped down on a nearby bench, exhausted and weary, mindlessly ruffling through the pamphlets one by one before tossing them to the garbage bin by his side. There were pamphlets about safe sex, AIDS, STD, homeless shelters, church groups and then, at the bottom, there was one about a runaway shelter. He tossed out every last one. When he felt a little bit stronger, he got to his feet with a grunt and started walking. He didn't have anywhere to go, but he never did. Just going, staying on the road, that was his entire life. What he could remember of it, at least. Someone called his name. Well, his alias, at least. Dean didn't even turn. After all, what good would that do? But the man chasing him didn't give up and Dean started to feel uncomfortable. If he wasn't so goddamn tired he would have bolted the second he heard his alias spoken out loud.

"Kid, wait please," the man was gasping, and Dean stopped, but only because he was tired and his duffle bag was heavy. The man seemed scrawny, and terribly out of shape for a thirty-year-old, or at least, that's what Dean had him pegged for. He was wearing a white collar, but Dean knew better than to trust someone's, or something's appearance, no matter how harmless they looked. "Thanks." The man breathed. Dean frowned.

"For what?" he asked.

"For not running." The man pressed his hand to his side, and then reached a hand out to Dean. "My name is Pastor Dan." Dean stared at the outstretched hand, but didn't shake it. The pastor didn't seem surprised or offended. He lowered his hand and smiled. "They didn't tell me you left. If I'd known you were going to leave so quickly I'd have come to talk to you sooner." He went on kindly. Dean studied him, his hand reaching for the knife. Never trust anyone. Shoot first, ask questions later.

"Why?" he demanded.

"I don't know if they gave you this," Pastor Dan said, reaching for an inner pocket and Dean tensed. The pastor reacted immediately, spreading his hands in the air, palms up. Obviously, he was used to people feeling threatened by that move. "I'm just going to reach in my pocket, take a pamphlet out. Is that okay?" he asked slowly, his hands still in the air. Dean wrinkled his brow.

"What kind?" he asked. He didn't mean to be rude, but he didn't know this person, and he had no one to watch his back. Not anymore. Maybe not ever.

"It's for a shelter. For runaway kids." The pastor said and Dean rolled his eyes, turning away. "There are no strings attached," Pastor Dan said quickly, "you could stay there tonight, leave first thing if you want." He said as Dean started to leave. "Come on, what do you say? Free meal? A nice bed, away from the streets? Come on, you don't really want to stay out on the streets, do you?" he coaxed. Dean stopped, hesitating. He was starving, and the thought of a bed sounded so good, but he still didn't trust this person, if it even was a person.

"Pastor Dan?"

"Yes?"

"Cristo." Dean said, loud and clear. The man blinked, surprised.

"I'm sorry?" he asked. Dean studied him. A demon should have flinched at the word, but there were other things, not all of them were demons. "The name of God? Are you a believer, son?" Pastor Dan asked quickly.

"No." Dean said, shouldering his duffle again. He could have sworn the damn thing just kept getting heavier and heavier.

"Well, that doesn't matter. Listen, it's not too far from here, 1438 Washington Street. Just a few blocks that way," the pastor said, pointing the way. "You really should come. No questions asked if you don't want to answer any, that's not a problem. But we do close the doors at ten, and it's almost nine." Dean gave a small nod and a weary grin, and started going the opposite direction. "Hot meal and a warm bed. No strings. You think about that." The pastor called out after him.

* * *

Dean stared at the heavy oak door and hesitated. He could barely keep his eyes open. The growling in his stomach he could handle, even the pain and the fatigue, but his mind was all fuzzy from the pain killers and antibiotics. A night out in the dark with no one to watch his back, or this place, where he could eat, and maybe shower and maybe, just maybe, get enough salt to make a protective circle and get a couple of hours' sleep. His hunter instincts told him to run. His head told him there was nowhere to go. But he just couldn't. He'd never asked anyone for help, he wasn't going to start now. Besides, it was after ten anyway. Dean started to turn away when the door opened. 

"Hi, Clark," Dean turned and Pastor Dan smiled at him. "Clark Kent, right?" he winked, using the alias Dean had given at the clinic. "You want to come in?"

"It's after ten." Dean said. The pastor cocked his head to the side, waving his hand dismissively.

"I'll make an exception." He said, and then winked at Dean. "Hey, even Superman needed help sometime, right? Now come on, it's freezing outside. Let's get you out of the rain." He said, reaching out and leading Dean inside. There was another set of heavy doors, this one equipped with a security system, and beyond that… The first thing he noticed was the warmth. He didn't even realize how cold he had been until he felt that warmth. Pastor Dan, now wearing a simple flannel shirt and a pear of jeans, led Dean through the foyer and into the huge living room. There were at least five couches there, and a fire crackling in the hearth. There were kids all over the place, really young kids, five or six years old, and even older ones, his age. They all seemed old though, mature beyond their ages, just like him.

"Hey, we got fresh meat?" Dean jumped at the question, immediately dropping his duffle and tensing, taking a defensive stance and looking suspiciously around, but that only got him a round of laughter. He straightened, stifling a gasp of pain, and looked around sheepishly. "Yeah, fresh meat alright." The kid said. Dean measured him up. He seemed about eighteen, Latino, and with a wide smile on his face. He walked up to Dean, reaching his hand up to shake Dean's. "Yo, man, I'm Hector. Welcome home." He said. Dean hesitated a moment, but shook Hector's hand.

"Hector, why won't you show Clark around? Take him to the kitchen, show him where everything is and give him some linen for the bed?" Pastor Dan suggested.

"Yeah, sure, no problem man." Hector said, slapping Dean's shoulder. Dean couldn't stop the cry that escaped his lips. He winced, trying to breathe through the pain, gritting his teeth. "Yeah, you're fresh meat alright." Hector repeated, more quietly and seriously this time. "You okay, man?" he asked, and waited until Dean nodded. "Alright. So these are my peeps. This is Devon, Ashley, Toni and the little squirt there is Reuben." Hector said, pointing at a fifteen year old boy, a fourteen year old pregnant girl, and a nineteen year old guy holding a two year old in his arms. Dean nodded at them. "Come on, man, I'll show you the place. There'll be enough time to beat your ass at poker later." Hector said, leading Dean after him. That actually made Dean grin. It's been years since anyone beat him at poker unless he wanted them to win. Hector showed him to another lounge, with a small TV and a pool table, showed him the downstairs bathrooms and large kitchen. There were four huge refrigerators there, two large food preparing areas and one, very long, table.

"We all pitch in here. Those who can, cook. Those who can't, clean up." Hector said, opening one of the large refrigerators. "We eat dinner at eight, so I'm afraid there's just leftovers." He said, pulling things out as Dean just slumped on one of the two extremely long benches that were sat on each side of the long table. He folded his hands on the table, resting his head on his hands and closing his eyes. He jumped when a plate landed next to his head. He looked questioningly at Hector, but the other boy just shrugged. "Turkey." He said, as if it explained everything. Dean shook his head.

"I can't afford it." He said, his stomach growling, and Hector smiled.

"Looks to me like you've already paid enough." He said, sitting across from Dean and studying him carefully as Dean reached for the sandwich in front of him and devoured it in a matter of seconds. "So, you do drugs?" Hector asked all of a sudden, and Dean choked and started coughing. He shook his head, still coughing. Hector nodded slowly. "Good," he said, "'cause that will get you kicked out of here for good. No second chances." Hector said, getting up, taking Dean's empty plate and putting it in the sink. "Also, boys and girls sleep in separate rooms. You want to get busy with a female, you do it someplace else, you get it?" he said, and Dean nodded, quickly pocketing the salt shaker and hoping it would be enough. Hector studied him a moment longer. "Seriously, man. Not too many rules here, but you don't want to break 'em or you'll get tossed back out." he said.

"Doesn't matter," Dean said, forcing himself to his feet. "I'm out of here by tomorrow." Hector stared at him a moment, and then laughed.

"Oh, yeah? And then what? The streets?"

"I can take care of myself." Dean said indignantly.

"Sure you can, fresh meat." Hector said. Dean thought he was going to leave him alone, but then Hector suddenly lifted his shirt up. There were many scars there, on the front and back, but it would take a lot more than that to impress Dean. "See, that's what's out there. You think you're ready for that?" Hector demanded. "You have no idea what's out there in the dark." He added almost angrily. Dean grinned. There weren't many people who knew what was out there in the dark as well as he did. He was about to say so, too, but his knees buckled and he nearly fell face flat on the floor. Hector quickly reached in to steady him. "Let's get you to bed, fresh meat. Plenty of time to make fun of you tomorrow, when you're conscious enough to understand." He said, and practically carried Dean up the stairs. He left Dean sitting on a stripped bed for a moment, only to return a second later with Dean's duffle and some clean sheets. "Now you listen to me, fresh meat, my room's just three doors to the left. Anyone messes with you, any of your stuff going missing, whatever, you just come get me, okay?" Hector asked, but Dean was already too far gone to answer.

* * *

Dean woke up when he felt something cold and wet on his forehead. _God, was he ever cold before? It was like a furnace in here_. He called out for Sam to crack open a window, kicking his covers off, but they were quickly pulled back up to his neck. Man, he felt like crap. He tried to turn on his side, but the pain made him cry out. _When did that happen?_ He didn't remember the poltergeist tossing any knives his way. Sam's way, yes, but he had managed to get him out of the way just before the damn thing tossed a couch at him. _Oh, that would explain the ribs_. 

"Sammy, seriously, open a window, would you?" Dean grunted, and the wet thing on his forehead was replaced with something cooler. Someone was talking to him, trying to sooth him, but he didn't recognize the voice. "Sammy, go get dad, would you? I think something got me last night…" he muttered, but the only reply he got was 'shh, it's okay, you're safe now'. Of course he was safe. He was with his family. And then exhaustion claimed him.

When he woke up again he still felt warm, but there was no one there with him. It took him a few seconds to remember where he was, and why, and then he struggled off the bed. He grimaced, his hand going to his side, and waited for the pain to lessen. He found his way to the bathroom, but got a little confused finding his way back to the room he'd slept in.

"You're awake." Someone smiled at him. An older man, in his late fifties. Dean raised a brow. "How are you feeling?" the old man asked kindly. Dean shrugged. The old man offered a smile and his hand. "My name is Father Tomas. Pastor Dan mentioned your name was Clark, right?" Dean raised a brow, then shrugged again and shook the man's hand. Father Tomas reached his hand to Dean's forehead. "You're still warm. Are you hungry?" he asked. Dean nodded slightly. "Well, get back in bed, and I'll see what I can do about that. How does that sound?" Dean gave a slight nod, and the man smiled. "A man of few words, aren't you, Clark?" he ruffled Dean's hair fondly and then went back downstairs. Dean stared after him a moment longer and then finally made it back the room he slept in the previous night. There were five other beds there, he now noticed, and all but one were made. A quick glance at his watch told him it was already noon. Dean tensed at the sound of nearing footsteps. Father Tomas soon entered the room, a large tray in his hands. He smiled again. "Why won't you get back in bed, Clark? You were running a very high fever this morning. We were getting worried."

"I can take care of myself." Dean snapped, reaching for his duffle, but Father Tomas gently pushed him back.

"I'm sure you can." He said softly, "But let's just say, for the sake of argument of course, that you may need some assistance. Just until you feel better, of course." He said quickly. Dean studied the man carefully. "You think you can handle some soup?" Father Tomas asked, "It's from a can, or I wouldn't be asking." He smiled apologetically. Dean wrinkled his brow. _What other kind was there?_ Father Tomas handed him the tray and Dean pushed himself back against the wall, resting his back gingerly against it, and thanked Father Tomas. "See if it agrees with you," the old man said, "and then, maybe we could try something more… solid." He coaxed, sitting on a nearby bed and watching Dean. _Oh, great_, Dean thought to himself, _an audience_. "So, tell me, son, how did you get those nasty cuts of yours?" he asked, and Dean choked on the soup. _What was that with these people and asking questions while he was trying to eat?_ Father Tomas gave him a glass of water, and Dean thanked him. "Son, I know it's scary, but you shouldn't protect whoever did those to you. That monster should be behind bars." Father Tomas said seriously. Dean gave a slight grin.

"He got what he deserved." He said, and went back to eating.

"Is that why you ran away?" at that, Dean put the tray aside. He wasn't hungry anymore.

"I thought you guys didn't ask questions." He noted. Father Tomas gave him a small smile.

"And how would that help?" he asked. Dean opened his mouth to answer, but couldn't think of anything to say. "How old are you, boy?" Father Tomas asked.

"Eighteen." Dean answered. Father Tomas gave a slight nod.

"And do you usually go to school, Clark?" at that, Dean got a little irritated.

"I can read, if that's what you're asking." He snapped. Actually, he could do much more than that. He always pretended to hate school, because that's what he thought his father wanted. School was a waste of time as far as his father was concerned. Actually, Dean rather liked school. He wasn't obsessed with it like Sam was, but he really enjoyed learning new things. He was pretty good at math, and he loved science. True, his favorite subject was lunch – but that was only because of the girls. What could he do? They threw themselves at him, and he loved every second of it. And contrary to what he had led everyone to believe, he only failed tests when they went hunting and he couldn't study. Even then, he sometimes asked for extra credit work to get his grades back up, but that was one of his deepest secrets. He'd tell everyone in the world he was a ghost hunter long before ever admitting to do extra credit stuff. It had paid off, though. The three college acceptance letters at the very bottom of his duffle were proof of that. One of them even offered a scholarship. It wasn't a full ride, but still, considering the amount of time he had actually spent on his schoolwork, he was rather proud.

"Good. Education is very important." Father Tomas said with a satisfied nod. "No matter how low people may drag you, if you're smart and educated, you can always pull yourself back up." He added, getting to his feet. He could tell Dean was done talking. He had had enough experience with runaways to know when to stop pushing. He reached in his pocket, taking something out and putting it in Dean's hand. "Lunch is in forty minutes." He said, turning to leave, "Bring the tray down with you, would you?" Dean opened his fist to see a dollar in four quarters, just in case he wanted to use the payphone…

* * *

The runaway shelter turned up to be quite a nice place. The kids there could relate to his feelings and experiences, even though their monsters tended to take on human form. Many of them were betrayed by their families, some have even been abused and/or tossed out to the street. As much as he tried to avoid it, it was somewhat easy to talk to them. On his third day there he volunteered to make dinner. He wasn't used to cooking for so many people, and burned the chicken a little bit. He turned completely red when they applauded him at the end of dinner. The best he had ever gotten from his family was 'good work, son, now why won't you clean up?' 

Hector kept close, and after beating him at pool for the sixth time in a row, Reuben declared Dean to be the bestest player ever. Dean was rather surprised at the stab of longing that struck him at that. Sam used to think he was the bestest once, too. A long time ago. Now he was just annoying, or a jerk or a mindless toy soldier. On the best of days, he was the chauffeur and the cook and the cleaning lady.

Dean woke up with a start, wincing at the pain in his side. For a moment there, he thought he was having a nightmare, but then he noticed the other boys in his room were up. And then he heard it again. The scream.

"Sammy!" the name rolled off his lips without him even noticing it. He jumped out of bed, grabbing his knife and running towards the source of the screams. It came from the third floor, and Dean pushed through the curious kids that blocked his way, shouting at them to get out of his way and go back to their rooms where it was safer. The crowd of people told him exactly where to go, and he yelled at them to get out of the way, pushing mercilessly. He had to get to Sam, make sure Sam was safe. He knew it was ridicules, Sam wasn't even there, but the need was so deeply ingrained in his mind he knew he would never be rid of it. "Where is it?" he shouted at the pale girl that kept screaming. She ignored him, and he grabbed her on both shoulders. "Where is it?" he demanded, giving her a little shake. She pointed her shaky hand to the bathroom. Dean turned quickly, knife ready, and cursed. There was so much blood. "I need a tourniquet!" he said, rushing to the bathroom, "A sheet or something, quick, or she'll die!" he screamed at a nearby terrified thirteen year old and grabbed the seventeen year old lying on the floor, wrists slashed. Dean cursed, checking the girl's neck for pulse. She wasn't breathing, but he could still feel a faint pulse. Someone brought over a sheet and Dean used his knife to tear it into strips, making a tourniquet and stopping the rivulets of blood as much as he could. When there was nothing more he could do about the blood loss, Dean started CPR, and kept going until the paramedics arrived. They told him he saved the girl's life. All Dean could think of was not being there to save Sam's if he needed saving.

He couldn't go back to sleep after that. All the clapping and cheering around him didn't even register. All he could see was that poltergeist tossing knives at his little brother, the werewolf that nearly bit him, the spirit that almost strangled him to death… What would happen to Sammy now, when he wasn't there to watch over him? Who would protect him now?

It was after four in the morning, but Dean just had to hear Sammy's voice, he had to make sure that Sammy was safe. He used one of the quarters Father Tomas had given him and phoned the apartment they currently lived in. The phone rang three times. Dean was ready to hang up, in fact he almost did, when he heard someone talking.

"Hello?" the familiar voice sounded sleepy, and not at all injured. Or worried. Dean bit his lip, fighting the lump of tears that threatened to choke him. If it had been Sammy that walked out or went missing, _he_ never would have let the phone ring twice before he answered. And _he_ would have sounded worried. "Dean? Dean, is that you?" and then, just as he was about to answer, someone else was talking.

"Dean Mathew Winchester, where the hell are you?" and Dean hung up. Of course dad would be mad. He didn't expect anything else. With Dean being gone, he would have to hunt on his own, or take Sammy with him, even on school nights. And he would have to do some cooking and other things Dean would normally take care of. Like remembering parent-teacher night. It was tomorrow night; Dean was ready to bet a million bucks his dad didn't even know that. He shuffled back to the room he shared with four other strangers, ignoring everyone around him. They were calling him Superman now, some even called him Mr. Cool, or Doc, but he ignored them all. He saved someone's life tonight. Big deal. He saved someone's life on a semi-regular basis. Been doing it since he was eleven. It was the only part of the job he actually liked, and the part of the job his dad didn't really seem to care about, unless he was trying to blackmail either himself or Sam. Dean pushed his way back to the bedroom as Pastor Dan and Father Tomas and a few of the others tried to usher all the kids back to their beds. He turned the light off as he got in the room and crawled into bed. Sitting with his back against the wall, his knees drawn to his chest and his elbows resting on his knees, Dean cried more than he cried in the past eight years. No one around him told him to stop. No one around him told him to suck it up, be a man. One of the younger kids crawled in bed with him, putting his little hand on Dean's knee and offering whatever comfort he could. Hector sat on his other side, pulling him closer, rubbing his hand in small circles on Dean's back, and just held him there until he couldn't cry anymore.

* * *

"What are you going to do now?" Devon asked, watching Dean zip up his duffle. Dean shrugged. 

"Clark, man, don't be stupid. There's nothing good out there on the streets." Hector said, "Besides, you're not even well yet. You still need to take care of those stitches." He added.

"I can take care of myself." Dean insisted.

"No one said you can't," Darla said, touching his arm. She wouldn't leave his side ever since he saved that girl, and kept bating her lashes at him. Dean might have found it appealing if she wasn't twelve. "But why would you want to go?" she asked, "Isn't this place better than where you live?" Dean bit his lip, not answering. He wasn't planning on going back there either.

"Life's hard enough, why make it harder? You have friends here," Lisa told him, squeezing his shoulder and stroking his cheek. She must have been a really pretty girl once, before her monster of a father cut her face out. "Don't go."

"Listen, I'm touched, really," Dean said, looking at all of them. There were more kids sticking their heads from out in the hall. _They must really like his cooking_, he thought. He couldn't understand why else they would want him here. "But I just… I can't stay."

"Look, I get it." Hector said, "There's someone else, isn't there?" he asked, a knowing look in his eyes. "See, when I first got here, all I could do was think about my baby sister Marissa. I can't stand the thought of her out there with that scum my mother calls husband." He said, his voice a little gruff. He cleared his throat and went on. "But Father Tomas, he helped me get a job, man. He helped me open a bank account. Every penny I earn goes straight there, so that next month, when I turn eighteen, I could go back and take Marissa and we could go live someplace far from that sonofabitch." He finished, giving Dean a meaningful look. "Father Tomas can do that for you, too. Pastor O'Malley is really tight with the schools, he could get you in one of these trade schools or help you get your GED or something, and Father Tomas could help you get a job… Look, you split to get another chance of life, right? So take it. Man, someone like you can't afford to get cut up on the streets. Who else is going to look after all those kids when I'm out of here?" Dean bit his lip, sitting back down on the bed. He missed Sammy. He was still a little angry with him, but he knew he couldn't stay mad at him for a long time. He was his little brother, his best friend, Dean practically raised him. But that only made it hurt that much more. Because it was one-sided. Dean wasn't Sam's best friend. He wasn't someone Sam looked up to, not anymore. Sam didn't even come looking when the Raw took him. No, he was too busy fighting with dad. They kept using him against each other and they didn't even care that it was tearing him apart.

* * *

You always want what you cannot have. For John Winchester, it was closure, revenge. For his youngest son Sam, it has always been another life, a _normal_ life. For Dean, it was a family. A real family. One that actually cared you were gone. One that actually stopped fighting long enough to notice you were gone. That you wanted back and was too scared and hurt to do it on your own. 

All he wanted was for someone to hold him every once in a while, to tell him that it was okay for him to be scared sometimes, to be proud that he got into college. To even know he wanted to go to college. He wanted a mom and a dad, and not to try to be both for a brother that didn't even appreciate it.

He would follow his father anywhere, hunt anything, follow any order without question if it meant keeping his family safe. If it meant keeping his family together. If it meant he had a family.

Seven days. A week. That's as long as he could stand to be away. That's how long he could stand to be without them.

He left the acceptance letters behind, along with all his hopes and dreams. Save for one. His family. He locked the person he wanted to be, the person he knew he could become, somewhere deep in his mind, and pulled his mask back on. The mask of the superhero, of the person that couldn't get hurt, even when the words Sam tossed his way with such skill tore his heart apart. The mask he'll never again take off. He'd take a grumble as a 'thank you' and 'I love you', because that's all he was going to get, and he was okay with that. Well, he kept telling himself that, anyway. Maybe if he repeated it enough, he'd actually believe it someday. No more chick-flick moments. His dad hated them. They made him weak.

* * *

Dean thanked Pastor Dan for the ride, and stepped out of the car. His ribs still hurt a little. His shoulder was sore. The deep lacerations at his side still needed a lot of taking care of. The bruises on his face were fading now. He heaved his duffle over his shoulder and just stared at the house for a while. What if they've moved while he wasn't there? It wasn't unusual for his dad to just pack up and leave in the middle of the night once the job was done. And it was done. Dean had killed the Raw himself. 

"You want me to go in with you?" Pastor Dan suggested. Dean shook his head. "You have my number, just in case, right?" Pastor Dan asked, making sure. Dean's hand slipped into his pocket, where the little piece of paper with Pastor Dan's number was tucked away carefully, and nodded absent mindedly. He had offered to give him some money, but Dean refused. He knew how to make money if he needed. He could take care of himself. Been doing it for the better part of his life. "Clark?" Dean turned to look at him questioningly, "You know I'll always be there for you, me and the shelter, right?" the pastor asked seriously. Dean gave him a grin.

"Thanks." He said in a small voice. He stared at the house for another ten minutes before he found the courage to go back.

He apologized to his father for hours. When Sam got back home from school, Dean spent the rest of the day apologizing to them both. Because he needed them. Much more than they ever needed him.

Dean knew he was never going to walk out on his family again. And he never did. They walked out on him. And they didn't come back willingly.

* * *

_These wounds won't seem to heal,  
This pain is just too real,  
There's just too much that time cannot erase.  
When you cried, I'd wipe away all of your tears.  
When you screamed, I'd fight away all of your fears,  
I held your hand through all of these years,  
And you still have all of me…_

_Evanessence - My immortal. _

The End


End file.
